As she entered the chamber, she met the apothecary coming out: in asking him some questions, though she spoke very low, Mr. Munden thought he distinguished her voice; and cried out, as loud as he was able, 'Is my wife here?' On which, approaching the bed, and gently opening one of the curtains, 'Yes, Mr. Munden,' replied she; 'I am come to offer all the assistance in my power; and am sorry to find you are in any need of it.'—'This is very kind,' said he, and stretched out one of his hands towards her, which she took between hers with a great deal of tenderness: 'I have been much to blame,' resumed he; 'I have greatly wronged you; but forgive me—if I live, I will endeavour to deserve it.'
'I hope,' said she, 'Heaven will restore your health, and that we may live together in a manner becoming persons united as we are.'—'Then you will not leave me?' cried he. 'Never,' answered she, 'till your behaviour shall convince me you do not desire my stay.'
Here he began to make solemn protestations of future amendment; but his voice failing him, through extreme weakness, a deep sigh, and tender pressure of his cheek to hers, as she leaned her head upon the pillow, gave her to understand what more he would have said: on this she assured him she was ready to believe every thing he would have her—intreated him to compose himself, and endeavour to get a little rest. 'In the mean time,' said she, 'I will order things so that I may lie in the same room with you, and quit your presence neither night nor day.'
Here he pressed his face close to hers again, in token of the satisfaction he felt in hearing what she said; and the nurse who attended him that instant presenting him with some things the physician had ordered should be given him about that hour, joined her entreaties with those of Mrs. Munden, that he would try to sleep; to which he made a sign that he would do so: and, the curtains being drawn, they both retired to the farther end of the room.
As he lay pretty quiet for a considerable time, Mrs. Munden recollected that there was a thing which friendship and good manners exacted from her: she had wrote, the very day before, to Lady Loveit, acquainting her with the motive which had obliged her to quit her brother's house, and desiring she would favour her with a visit, as soon as convenience would permit, at the place of her retirement. As she doubted not but the good-nature of this lady would prevail on her to comply with her request, she could not dispense with sending her an immediate account of the sudden revolution in her affairs, and the accident which had occasioned this second removal.
She had no sooner dispatched a little billet for this purpose, than the groans of Mr. Munden, testifying that he was awake, drew both her and the nurse again to the bedside: they found him in very great agonies, and without the power of speech; the doctor and apothecary were sent for in a great hurry; but, before either of them came, the unhappy gentleman had breathed his last.
Mrs. Munden had not affected any thing more in this interview than what she really felt; her virtue and her compassion had all the effect on her that love has in most others of her sex; she had been deeply touched at finding her husband in so deplorable a situation; the tenderness he had now expressed for her, and his contrition for his past faults, made a great impression on her mind; and the shock of seeing him depart was truly dreadful to her: the grief she appeared in was undissembled—the tears she shed unforced; she withdrew into another room; where, shutting herself up for some hours, life, death, and futurity, were the subject of her meditations.